Allegiance
by professor lazyass
Summary: George will do anything to bring Fred back, anything to bring him back home, and if becoming a Death Eater is part of the process, then so be it. / Rating may change. Multiple Chapters.
1. Dark Dealing

The shop has been open for two weeks now, and it always takes a while for George to muster up the strength to wake up in the morning. He nearly feels guilty, and despite Ron's help it feels as if he's running the shop—his and _Fred_'s shop—just by himself. He remembers how much work Fred put into it, remembers occasionally finding him slumped, sleeping across the table in the backroom, ingredients for some new product strewn everywhere, resulting in George having to haul Fred all the way upstairs. He remembers Fred so excited on the opening day, when Hogwarts students and grown wizards and witches alike were flooding the floor, most of the shelves empty by night. He remembers how happy Fred was, and it kills him.

George sighs and scrubs his face with his hands, sits up, and just stays still, eyeing the door through the hallway that he can't seem to walk into. After living at the Burrow for nearly a year, George decided he shouldn't be a burden on his parents anymore, and once he opened up the shop again he chose to move back to the flat as well. When he got here, it needed some serious cleaning. With the help of his mum and Ginny, things were put back in order, yet when his sister tried to go into Fred's room, he said a blunt and harsh no. It wasn't brought up again, and soon enough the dark oak door seemed like a curse, like an object that was forbidden, something that needed to be banished and yet the feat was impossible to accomplish. George has only been in the room once.

It was on the first night he was here, in the flat. Everything had made George so _nostalgic_, and he immediately regretted moving back in, but he didn't want to go back to the Burrow, either. He'd felt like he was going to throw up. Even the kitchen reminded him of Fred—he'd always made the meals, because George had no idea how to cook anything and not burn it—and he resorted in the one place in the flat he hadn't been in yet—Fred's room.

George didn't really know why he wanted to go in there. If the kitchen alone had reminded him of Fred, then why would he choose to go in the said twin's room? But he did, and when he opened the door, he nearly collapsed.

Everything was left as it was. The walls were still tan, the bed still messy, and a shirt thrown carelessly over a pillow. A Chudley Cannons poster hung proudly by a very small bookcase that wasn't even one shelf full. Fred's old Cleansweep was still propped up against the window, and when George pulled back the curtains, since Fred's room was on the side of the flat that faced the alleyway, all he could see was a cold, dark brick wall.

George had stumbled back, back of his legs hitting Fred's bed as he did so, and he fell on the cold sheets. And after all that time, when George curled up into a tight ball and clutched Fred's shirt in his hands, to his chest, the room—the kitchen, the whole flat, he realized—still smelled of Fred. And George sobbed.

Now, as George groggily stands up, half asleep and half depressed, he walks out of his room, across the hallway, and stands, right hand holding the smooth, cold, untouched doorknob softly. He opens the door, pushes through, and stands. It's dark, even if the sun is up and not a cloud is in the sky (something that George gathered from his own room's window), because the tall building on this side of the shop blocks out the sun. Because the shadows from the tall building cascade over this side of the shop, draping themselves over Fred's room, his bed, that bookshelf, the old broom. George's heart clenches as he takes a step closer inside, socked feet padding softly against the wood floor. He stands there, breaths for a few beats longer, and begins to clean.

Since acting on some strange impulse, he doesn't have his wand, or any Muggle-esque cleaning supplies Molly lent him that he has no idea how to use. Because of this, George can't do much, but he remakes Fred's bed, throws some clothes that'll never get washed in a hamper, straightens out the bookshelf and pulls back the thick cream curtains of the window, as if to give some light to the room.

Yet, when George walks towards Fred's end table and props up a facedown picture frame, he suddenly feels weak, spent up, and plops onto the bed. He's held out for long enough, he reasons.

The picture is of Fred and him together, somewhere along the summer after sixth year, with their hair a bit longer than usual. George smirks sadistically, remember how Fred told him that the Muggle boys in the village were growing out their hair, and if he and George did too they'd be sure to get a few dates to accompany them to Hogsmade. George takes the picture frame with shaking hands and looks down at it, looks at his younger self shove Fred playfully, broomsticks over their shoulders and sweat along their brows. They'd just finished playing Quidditch. George remembers that game; he'd knocked a Buldger at Ginny and she nearly fell, would've broken her leg too if she hadn't held onto the broom like Ron had the following year. George frowns, eyebrows furrowing as his fingertips trail along Fred's laughing, young form, and for the millionth time since one year ago, he feels like part of him has died, like with every reminder of Fred parts of him deteriorate, fall off in copious chunks, because Fred and him were two halves of a whole, because you can't have one without the other, one half is nothing without the other—not a whole, because if one dies, the other will surely follow—the sooner, the better.

* * *

><p>There are pros and cons of living alone, George thinks, as he decides to not open the joke shop, something returning costumers should expect by now (out of the two weeks he's been here, the shop has only been open for three days) and Ron worries over, pursing his lips. After a while, he finally left.<p>

A pro is that Molly isn't around him constantly, asking him if he's fine or okay (the word _alright_ had been permanently tabooed after George lost it when Percy asked him if he was a few weeks after the battle) or shoving food that George loses later down his throat. That there's no one around to constantly annoy him, no one around to force him to go do something _social_, no one to act as if stepping on pins and needles around him, no one to simply try and start a conversation to which George would begrudgingly engage in.

The con is that there's no one here to simply _distract _him. Distract him from the fact that Fred was once here, distract him from the fact that Fred's gone, that he isn't coming back, that nothing will _bring_ him back. The Burrow was annoying, of course (though George did try to lighten up as much as he could), but it was thankfully distracting. With a crazy mum and relatives still living there (Ginny and Ron) and some visiting every so often, noise was abundant. But here, at the flat, it's so, so quiet. George even bought a Muggle television just to fill up the place with noise.

Now, George begins getting dressed, snapping out of his thoughts and pulling a t-shirt over his head. He isn't exactly one to fret over himself, but he's beginning to get worried. It's been a _year_ since Fred died, and while George knows he'll never really get over it, the rest of his family has moved on, let themselves be happy as George refuses to do so for reasons he can't articulate. He walks into the living room and frowns, pulling on a jacket and slipping into some trainers, lacing them quickly before heading out of the apartment, down the steps, and out the shop door. He decides that a good walk will refresh his mind.

* * *

><p>George walks, hands in his pockets, down Diagon Alley, nodding at a few people who say hello but not responding any further. He turns a left and finds himself deeper in, near the hangouts and homes of previous dark wizards and a select group of Death Eaters. Though the area had been scouted and ridden of any suspiciousness after the war, it still holds its reputation, and shady people still occupy the downtrodden flats and bars. George finds that he doesn't really care, and saunters down the dark brick road, glancing at witches and wizards garbed in dark robes who eye his flaming red hair carefully—a trait popularly known for a Weasley.<p>

George whistles and nonchalantly and walks into a bar, the tables greasy and atmosphere heavy, shivering, as if the autumn air is uncomfortable, when in reality George is pretty much just _numb_. The Weasley smirks, walks towards the counter and slides onto a stool. He turns, nodding at an elderly wizard with deep wrinkles and a large black pea coat.

"Beautiful season, isn't it?"

The man grunts, not answering, and George cocks his head, as if confused. He shrugs, and then turns to the bartender, who's wiping a filthy glass with an even filthier rag.

George innocently asks, "Water?" and the bartender, with his shaggy, long grey hair and a gruff voice glares.

"Stop shitting on me—Firewhiskey's four Galleons."

"Ah," George starts, fishing around his jean's pocket, "what a deal." He unfolds his hand, counts the money extra slowly, and tips his hand, letting the coins fall into the bartender's awaiting palm.

"It's seven—Keep the tip."

The man grunts, glares again, and then slams the glass on the murky counter. He turns around, and George takes this time to look about.

There aren't many people in the place. Two are sitting in a booth, one at a table underneath a high window, and another at the far end of the bar—four, excluding the man beside him, and all are looking at him.

The bartender turns back around, placing the glass on the counter stiffly, and George smiles, eyebrows rose in acknowledgement as he nods his thanks. He takes the cup in one hand, drowning half of the alcohol in a single go, and sighs in content, licking his lips. He nudges the man on his side with his elbow.

"Weather's been strange, huh? Sunny one second and rainy the next—not as bad as London, though, I suppose… from what the Muggles say. I've got a telly at my place, you see—"

The man at the other end of the bar growls, and George turns to him, smiling cheekily, the aftertaste of the whiskey setting his throat aflame.

"What the hell are you doing here," the man asks; voice low and rasped, "_Weasley_?"

With both hands cupped around the glass, George smiles wider, twiddling his thumbs, "Oh you know," he begins, "—was just walking through the neighborhood and fancied a drink."

"Leave," the man says, a hooded jacket shielding his face. George frowns.

"Why? This place is just so _cozy_, don't you a—"

The person beside him growls, and in seconds his arm is wrapped around George's neck, a knife pointed at the sliver of free skin. George, unfazed, raises his eyebrows, pushing the knife down with his finger as if he doesn't have a care in the world.

"Careful, there, buddy, someone could—"

"Why are you here, Weasley?" The man asks, and George notes that the bartender is fine with his current state.

"I told you," George starts, not really caring that the knife is now pressed so hard against his skin that blood is drawn, "I just decided to stop by, relax, you know—"

"You know what I think?"

George cranes his neck back, paying no heed to the knife and the soft sting as the blade rubs against his throat. He looks at the man, at his greasy silver hair and dark, black eyes, upside down. He stays quiet, allowing the fellow to continue.

"I think that you've gotten reckless ever since your little Freddie died."

George glares, dropping his sarcasm as he turns defensive, still calm as ever. He wonders why he's so…collected. Maybe the man is right. "How the bloody hell do you know his—"

"I think that you're a little sad," the man rolls on, ignoring George, "and I think that you're a little bored, Mr. Joke-Shop. I think that you're picking a fight; that you are trying to dig your own grave—"

The knife pushes against George's neck even harder, thin lines of blood of blood trickling down to his chest, and George gulps, "Who the fuck are you—"

"What would you do to bring your brother back?"

The question makes George freeze. The constant buzz of the slow, slow fans seem louder, as does his heartbeat and the man's rank breathing. His head pounds, his eyebrows furrow, and he swallows, licking his lips. He looks around the bar, and finds that everyone, who went back to their business before, is looking at him now.

"Anything," he whispers, suddenly out of breath, and he means it. The man above him smirks, lip curling and showing rotten, yellowed teeth.

"Perfect," he drawls, "I think we can strike a deal."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Welp. I feel that this was too short. Anywho, review, please?

**EDIT: **Line breaks got erased, but I put them back in. Ugh why must you hate me. Anyways, I hope it's easier to read.


	2. Friendship Bracelets

"_Tell your family you're leaving," the old man (George now knows his name is Dave Phillips) says, American accent heavy as he stokes the fire. George frowns, seated in a lumpy armchair with his hands circled around a teacup at the man's shack-like home. The tea is terrible. _

"_How do you mean?" he asks, and Phillps sighs, standing, setting the metal stick against the brick mantle. His walk looks akin to a waddle as he moves and plops down into the chair across from George. He picks up a cup from end table beside him, and takes a sip of the drink, grimacing in distaste afterwards. _

"_Tell them you need to get away. Visit France, head to America, anything to let you have a few weeks away from Diagon Alley without suspicion."_

* * *

><p>George gulps, walking into the kitchen of the Burrow with a heavy heart. He finds his mother doing dishes by hand, and her head whipping up as the back door slams behind him.<p>

"Georgie!" she exclaims, hurrying over, arms flying around him. George buries his nose in the crook of her neck, not knowing when he'll see her mother again. This makes her pause, and she pulls back, eyes filled with worry, a hand on her son's cheek.

"George? Is everything everything okay?"

Molly lets go and he shrugs, eyes glancing out the window, "I'm fine, Mum…" _Just about to become a Death Eater, is all._

Molly frowns, eyeing him carefully, "George, is there something on your mind?"

George turns back to his mother, and nearly breaks, about to head over to Phillps and tell him the deal's off. But then, Fred erupts in his thoughts. Fred and him playing Quidditch, Fred and him messing with the gnomes when they were little, Fred and him at the Battle of Hogwarts, forced to part… Fred's body _dead_, unmoving in the Great Hall. The wind gets knocked out of him, and George swallows down a gasp, giving his mother a smile he hopes but knows isn't reassuring.

"I'm fine, Mum, honest."

"George—"

"When is everyone coming?" he asks, cutting his mother off, for the whole Weasley clan, along with Hermione and Harry of course, is coming over for dinner.

"In about an hour, I suppose," Molly answers, still staring at her son, who stares right back, a look of importance across his face, "Why?"

"I—I need to tell Charlie something," he stutters, wanting to make it as quick as possible, not wanting to put up with the rest of the family. Out of everyone in the family besides… besides someone, he and Fred alike have always been closest to the dragon-tamer of the siblings; his mother knows this and grows rightfully panicked.

Molly bites her lip; eyebrows furrowed as she places a hand on George's arm, now genuinely worried. "George?" he voice is shaky, terrified, just above a whisper, and it kills him.

"Do you need help with anything?" he asks, walking briskly away from his mother and towards the sink. Silently, he begins washing them just as she did, without magic. He looks out of the corner of his eye, finding Molly's lips in a thin line as she wrings her apron viciously. George turns back to the sink, plates underwater clinking, and stays quiet. A silence blankets the mother and son, and George guesses it's probably immensely awkward for his mum. He thinks about breaking it, but decides against it; seconds later, Molly talks.

"Would—would you like me to call Charlie over? He's with Bill at Shell Cottage."

George turns his head, frowning. "The Shell Cottage?" he asks, and Molly pauses before responding.

"Sweetie, why don't you just…," she trails off, and George's heart hammers as she stares at him. He hates doing this to her, but he just _has_ to. Something flickers in her eyes, and his mother sighs, as if resigning, or giving up. "Fluer's… Fluer's pregnant. Charlie and Bill are at the cottage to fix it up a bit—expand it—, so it's ready for the baby."

She takes a step forward, eyes alight, and George remembers about Fluer's miscarriage just after the war. It was a girl, and her name was going to be Aimée, which meant _loved_. Molly places a hand on George's bicep, and he breaths out his nose noisily, soapy plate slipping from his hands.

"They're so happy, George," she says, and he thinks she knows he's leaving somewhere, leaving his family, now also an unborn nephew or niece. George gulps, thoughts flying to Fred for some reason. He wonders what his twin thinks of him, of the hell he's about to put himself through. Fred would be a little disappointed, wouldn't he? But… he'd be back, he'd be _alive_ and well and breathing, and Percy wouldn't stutter and flush and chew on his lip constantly, still suffering from survivor's guilt; George would be better, the shop would go back to its former glory, and the baby will have two uncles part of the same whole—not just a deteriorating half. The whole family will benefit from this… even if George might not live, and has no idea what he has to do or what's going to happen, he's just got to do it, for himself, for his siblings, his parents… and for his twin, his best friend.

George blinks, chewing on the inside of his cheek, a nervous habit Fred always rolled his eyes to and scolded him for it. With a shocking realization, George learns that it doesn't hurt to think of his brother anymore… because he's going to get him back. He opens his mouth, eyebrows furrowed and not sure of what to say, when the door bangs. George snaps his mouth shut immediately, looking up and practically over his mother's head, finding Bill and Fluer walking in, Charlie smiling and entering behind them.

Bill and Fluer stop talking immediately once they spot George, and Charlie rolls his eyes, nodding at his younger brother.

"Hey, George."

George simply nods back, making his older brother frown. Bill and Fluer seem confused, and Molly looks between Charlie and George, before making up some excuse to get the married couple and herself out of the room.

Charlie's eyebrows furrow and he walks over. George gulps and resumes chewing on the inside of his cheek, wanting to get this over with and leave to go lock up the shop.

"George? Is—is everything okay?"

George feels vulnerable. He avoids Charlie's gaze and feels like he's a little kid again—like that one time when he and Fred were trying to rig his room with Muggle firecrackers they found in their father's shed and they accidentally burnt his book _1001 Dragon Species and what You Need to Know About Them_.

"I'm leaving," he mutters. There. He said it. George looks up and finds Charlie thoroughly bemused.

"What—what do you mean leaving; where?" he asks, and George purses his lips, mind abuzz.

"I just—I just need to go away for a while," he lies easily, "I'll… be in America for a few weeks."

"_America_?" Charlie asks, completely baffled and voice low. George nods.

"It won't be long. I'll take the Muggle way too—air-oh-planes or whatever. Dad'll love it."

Charlie sighs and leans against the counter, staring at George intently, "You're just going to drop everything and head off across the ocean?"

"Really haven't got anything _to _drop," George says. Charlie scoffs.

"You can't just get up and decide to go to America. It won't fix anything."

George's lips form a thin line. He glares, and his brother glares right back—instead of just letting it go or resigning like the rest of his family seems set to do.

"You can't stop me," he says smoothly, and Charlie drops the cold act. George wonders if his brother's got a huge bout of forbidding that he does—like something huge is about to commence.

"George, please… don't do this."

"I have to," George says bluntly, and he isn't talking about a vacation. Charlie sighs again and lifts his hand, ruffling his little brother's hair silently.

"Just… be careful," he murmurs, and George grins wolfishly, somehow entirely at bliss.

"When have I ever not been careful, Char?"

Charlie snorts, and then George Disapparates, his brother's voice chanting _careful_ every second it takes to get to the shop.

* * *

><p><em>George frowns, having had it with the murky tea as he sets the cup on the coffee table in front of him. <em>

"_And why do I need to leave for a few weeks?" _

_Phillips grins, "Before we help you, you need to help us, obviously. We're going to round up the best of the Death Eaters—the ones that aren't cowards: still willing to fight—and then we'll plan; brainstorm, you could say. We need to get into the Ministry, get into the inside—and if we have to start from scratch, then so be it," the man pauses, then lifts his head defiantly, jaw set and chin jutted out. He murmurs, "And do you know where the best Death Eaters are, Weasley?" _

_The redhead doesn't answer._

* * *

><p>George lands in front of the shop. The windows are terrible dusty, he realizes. Fred'll probably yell at him for it, once he sees the shop again. George grins, butterflies starting in his stomach out of excitement, and he unlocks the door, pushing it open. The shelves are stocked messily and full, only a few items gone from the three days the shop's been open. George jogs up the stairs and into the flat, TV static filling the silence. He glances at Fred's room and wonders if his twin will be mad at him for not leaving it the way it was. He'll say something, pretending to be mad, George figures, though he won't be.<p>

The Weasley walks around, picking up a little and turning the telly off, locking all the windows and doors. George pauses at his dresser, opening up the sock drawer and staring down at a drawstring pouch, identical to the one Harry has; Fred smuggled it from Mundungus in their seventh year before school, for their birthday (which made George think his gift—the first sign for the shop—seem pretty lousy in comparison, but Fred somehow thought it was the other way around).

He swipes it from the drawer and then quickly slams the drawer shut, letting the bag fall around his neck. He looks down and opens it, finding nothing but two old identical bracelets, both knitted tightly with a plethora of colored yarn. George smiles bitter-sweetly, remembering when he and Fred were small and made friendship bracelets for each other, and how he vehemently stuffed the both of them in the bag after Fred's funeral. George pulls the bag shut, not wanting them to get ruined, and decides to wear his again once Fred wears his as well.

George gulps, not really sure what else to bring, and decides not to pack anything else: don't want to give a bad impression on the Death Eaters, now. He runs a hand through his hair and looks around the living room/kitchen, sees that everything's set to be deserted, and then freezes, catching Fred's room. His lips purse, and he walks over, stumbles, and pushes the door open, hand shaking for reasons he can't articulate. George stands in the middle of the room, stomach swooping and form shaking as he realizes that _he's going to get Fred back. _Sure, it may take a few wrong doings, but as he said in the pub—he'll do anything.

He plops down on Fred's bed, head in his hands, and stares at the floor. He simply stares, for a long time, and then he looks over his shoulder, at the picture frame still slammed down on the end table. George reaches over and grabs it, holding it in both hands, his left thumb pressing against the glass. He smirks and quickly flips it over, removing the back and pulling out the picture of him and his brother, opening the bag hanging from his neck and tucking it safely in along with the bracelets. He stands and strides over to the door, walks out, closing it behind him and not looking back.

George trots down the stairs and slows his pace, looking at the shelves of merchandise, and reckons his love for the shop has been rekindled—or, not really his love, as its always still been there; maybe motivation is a better word. He straightens out a cocked box on a shelf near the window, and then walks out of the door and into the cold autumn night. He turns around and sighs, eyes flickering up above the door at the shop's first humble little sign—a slab of wood painted maroon with the words _Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes _magicked to flicker, to darken and then lighten again. George smirks and then swallows thickly, tearing his eyes away from the sign he made himself, and taps the door's knob, locking it successfully and warding off any simple charms or spells made to unlock. He takes in a deep breath and tucks the pouch around his neck under his shirt, the fabric grazing his skin almost comfortingly, and the contents inside of it in upmost importance.

George zips up his somewhat thick jacket and tightens the grip on his wand, eyes fluttering shut as he Disapparates.

* * *

><p>"<em>What do I do from there?" George asks, eyeing the man across from him. Phillips shrugs. <em>

"_You Disapparate to the edge of Hogsmade: up north. Azkaban is in the North Sea, as you may know; fucking cold as hell. If you don't die from the Dementors or insanity then you'll surely die from the cold." _

"_But they don't use Dementors as guards anymore," George says; Phillips chuckles, sipping more tea. _

"_Shows how much you know, kid."_

* * *

><p>George opens his eyes, wind moving leaves as he looks around. The sky is now pitch black, crescent moon shining vigorously. George shivers, wishing he'd brought something heavier to wear as he catches Phillips walking towards him, stout form garbed in a thick coat and hat. The man looks at him, and then snorts.<p>

"Dumbass."

He then swiftly begins to walk, out of the village and into the thick of trees. George pauses, before following the Death Eater.

"We'll meet with everyone later, kid."

George nods, though the man can't see him, and keeps his chin up, constantly aware of the bag under his shirt. He thinks he can almost hear him and his twin laughing in the picture, but that's just in his head.

_I'm coming, Freddie, _he thinks, keeping his wand in a solid grip. _Reckon you can wait a little while longer?_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **So now we have things starting! Sorry for it being rather action-free, as this chapter was more of a transition than anything, but immensely important. Hope you liked it, and please review!

Also: this chapter took about a two weeks to write. I got really busy with other things, so chapters shouldn't be this slow from now on, and I'll try to write them ahead of time as well.

PS: I suck at making chapter titles don't hate appreciate~~

**EDIT: **Corrected Azkaban's location. It's actually in the North Sea, not the Arctic Ocean. I forgot about that; sorry!


	3. Maledicta

George looks around the forest, the trees whistling in the wind and leaves crunching underfoot. He shivers, jacket now seeming quite thin, especially when compared to Phillips's eskimo-esque coat. Silence suffocates him, but George, entirely unsure of what's going to happen, makes no move to fill it. He instead follows the stocky man diligently as thoughts of his family involuntarily surface to the forefront of his mind.

He wonders if they think he went off and committed suicide—he's done it twice in the last year, after all, shouldn't be too hard to imagine—or if they bought the vacation story, which he highly doubts. Maybe Charlie didn't tell anyone, but he doubts that as well. He wonders if they've _really _figured out where he's going, what he's going to become: a Death Eater, an infamous follower to the Dark Lord. But Voldemort's dead, so that complicates his view on things. George thought this would be a simple favor—kill a few people (he cringes at how casual the thought sounds), maybe steal something, help get into the Ministry—and then they'd help him get Fred back, but now, he's not so sure.

He wonders about Bill and Fluer, and their kid. He smiles weakly—Bill's probably cursing his name to death. George imagines him now: _That fucking idiot, why the hell did he leave? Where'd he go? _But George's last scrape of a grin falls as he thinks about the whole family wondering where he is: Ginny, trying to keep a strong front while clasped to a stoic Harry; Ron looking confused and unsure as Hermione sniffles and offers weak reassurance over and over again, mainly to make herself believe it; Molly fretting and wringing her hands, pacing back and forth in the living room, angry one minute and exceedingly depressed the next; Arthur, Bill (of course with Fluer), and Charlie trying to keep level heads and work out some type of plan or something, Fluer dropping unhelpful comments, meaning well; and finally, Percy, awkwardly standing away from everyone, not wanting to get in the way as his brain whirls a mile a minute, whilst drowning in grief—because if anything bad happens to George, now, Percy blames himself, since he's the self-proclaimed cause of it all.

George hurriedly wipes the thought away, never wanting to see his family, even in his mind's eye, distressed over him like that again. Can't they realize he knows what he's doing?—which is a flat out lie, but nonetheless, they should know he'll be fine; he's got one last chance to get Fred back, and he sure as hell isn't going to screw it up.

"Weasley!"

His breathe hitches slightly as his head snaps up. He finds Phillips glaring at him over his shoulder, a few meters away. He must've slowed down in his thoughts…

George quickly jogs up to the silver haired man, who grumbles, yet neither pay heed to the other. The redhead begins shivering again, and discreetly rubs his arms, frowning as his teeth chatter; how far up north are they? It hasn't felt like they've been walking very long, but George doesn't really trust himself nowadays when it comes to measuring time.

The dark indigo sky slowly churns into a pale peach as the sun comes up. George grows irritated at all of this walking—and it hasn't helped that Phillips only tells him to shut up and stay quiet when he asks things. Now that they've been at it long enough, George can safely say he's been walking for a few bloody _hours_. His breath comes out in little puffs, and the sunrise peeking through the gaps between trees is a welcome sight, warming the Weasley's frozen ears for a short time.

George doesn't notice Phillips stopping until it's too late, and clumsily runs into his back. The man scowls at him for what seems the thousandth time, but doesn't comment. George grins, and he rolls his eyes, muttering a string of curses that even impresses George—and he and Fred have quite the crop of vulgar language.

George walks after the man, turning sharply to the left and past a tree. They walk into a clearing, and Phillips swiftly grips his forearm, pulling him towards a glowing old soup can—a Portkey? George hurriedly grabs hold, and then feels the pull. The light snow dusting the trees and milky, warm sky ball up into an array of colors, swirling and merging all around George. His feet thankfully hit ground and he forces himself to stay upright; Portkeys were never really his strong suit.

George instantly realizes that it's colder than when they were walking, and desperately wishes he weren't an arse like Phillips had claimed and had chosen a thicker jacket to wear. He looks around and finally acknowledges his surroundings, finding himself in a dark alley, the bustle of a city to his right where the alley opens to. He hears Phillips a few paces behind him and looks over his shoulder, finding the man brushing off his coat. Where are they?

"We're in Glasgow—Scotland," the man says, as if reading George's thoughts, which honestly shakes him a bit. George nods, deciding to let the man talk on his own.

"There's a mansion on the edge of the city. We're away from London so no one should be able to recognize me—" Phillips pauses, staring at George "or you, for that matter." He sniffs, walking forward and past the younger man, who follows out of the alley. George squints, used to the dark forest as the sun seems to tackle his eyes in a blinding light. He swerves through the throng of early-risers and keeps note of Phillips's bobbing, silver head.

They continue to walk, and then Phillips takes a sharp right, walking into a busy street with large buildings and a brick road. Even with it being early in the morning, various people walk the sidewalks, talking with each other, Scottish accents thick and sounding very foreign to George's English ears—or ear, rather. He looks at the shop windows in awe, finding the Muggle fashion and other seemingly useless nick-knacks peculiar.

The Victorian-esque buildings tower above him and George looks up, neck craned as he takes in the pretty architecture.

"Come on, Weasley," says Phillips, in front of him, "Buchanan Street isn't all that."

* * *

><p>"Here."<p>

George looks up from the road, mouth falling open. A black, elegant, gate stands before him, fence sprouting from the sides and wrapping around the vast expanse of a garden. At the end of the said yard rests a large green mansion with brown trim, more beautiful than any Malfoy Manor as snow sits on window sills and the roof.

"Where—?" George begins to ask, turning towards Phillips beside him, but the man answers before he can finish.

"Kreiger Mansion… the Death Eaters you are about to meet, they pose as Muggles."

George frowns, finding the disguise surprising; _Muggles_?

The silver haired man notices his confusion and sighs, seemingly agitated. "Come on, Weasley," he grips the redhead's arm and walks literally through the gate, pulling George with him and onto the stone trail that leads up to the manor, "They'll explain it later."

"They…" George whispers, ripping his arm out of Phillips tight grip. The man glares at him but makes no comment, continuing his trek to the home. The both of them maneuver through the garden along the path, shoes clicking rhythmically as George eyes all of the flowers and short, bright green bushes on the sides of the stone, beautiful in the early (or late?—he doesn't know) morning light, snow dusting the petals and leaves, sun already high up. Colorful vegetation (which he thinks is being kept alive magically in the cold) doesn't exactly scream Death Eater to him, but maybe it is supposed to feed the Muggle guise.

Suddenly, something fuzzy brushes up against George. He freezes and gasps, looking down and finding nothing, then hurriedly spotting something of a tail streaking in a bush. Blue eyes stare at him from behind the leaves, and some type of animal bursts out of the plant and towards the home. With a better view, George sees almost blonde fur and black paws, a thick tail disappearing into the manor.

"Bloody hell," George mutters, and Phillips grunts; the former jumps, just now noticing the man.

"Damn Demetrius," Phillips complains, voice growing quieter, "thinks that since he's an Animagus he can do anything…I'll show him," and then continues to walk. George follows, still a bit shaky; an Animagus? He wonders what kind of animal that was—a fox, maybe?—and then wonders if that really was a human.

With the yard so large, they finally make it to the front doorstep. Phillips walks up stairs and onto a porch, George following, and the older man stops in front of a large, tall double-door. He pulls out his wand from his coat's sleeve and taps the doorknob, muttering something. Abruptly, various whizzes and bangs are heard on the other side of the door, as if hundreds of locks are unlocking. With a final sound, the doors click, opening by just an inch, and Phillips pushes them open.

They step into a large foyer with tan walls, vaulted ceilings, and marble flooring. Two grand staircases sit on either side of the back wall, and George looks around in awe of the beautiful architecture.

There's a click of heels, and a woman with old fashioned slightly wavy blonde hair swept to the right steps into view at the top of the stairs to the left, an eyebrow cocked and chin raised defiantly.

"Iz this the one you've been talking about, David?" She murmurs, voice deep and silky, tinged with a slight German accent. George gulps, a bit intimidated by her demeanor. He just now notices the black streak in her hair, an utter contrast to the blonde, along with her blazer, button down, straight pants, and stiletto heels, all exceedingly Muggle-styled. Blood red lips curl into a smirk and a hand with claw-esque black nails trails along the railing as she swaggers down the stairs, all business and dramatics.

Phillips straightens out beside him. "Yes," he answers, and she smiles wolfishly, stepping over to them, a girlish skip in her walk.

The Weasley feels strangely violated as her eyes skim him head to toe, forefinger gliding across his shoulder as she circles him. Her breath is weirdly cool on his neck as she eyes him. "So _you_ are the Weazley, the blood-traitor, the one with… the missing twin?"

He glances at her through the corner of his eye, trying to mask the flinch of his body, but she raises an eyebrow and hums, yet comments no more.

There's a bang, and she rolls her eyes as George's head whips behind him, finding an exuberant pale-blonde man who seems about the same age as him with slightly long, spiky hair, dressed in baggy shorts and a simple white t-shirt bursting through the front doors. He grins wildly, winks at the woman, and George frowns at the large circles in his ear lobes and the two…dot-things under his bottom lip; what're those? He remembers Ron going on about something Harry told him in fifth year… piercings, some Muggle thing. Wizards have piercings, yes, but nothing as extravagant as the non-magical folk do, and this makes George even more confused, but he brushes off the thoughts.

"Hey!" the blonde yells, jabbing a finger in George's direction, and the redhead finds something similar in the man's hair color, also taking note of the large scar streaked under an eye. "You're the new guy!" He darts over, sticking a hand out, which George stares at incredulously.

"I'm Demetrius! And—and you're George," he looks at the woman over George's shoulder real quick, "Right?" he talks again wheeling to George, "You're gonna shake my hand, aren't you? I mean, it's _polite_, after all…"

George turns to the woman, who mutters various crude-sounding things in what he presumes is German hurriedly. Demetrius snorts, apparently understanding her, but doesn't comment, instead deciding to strike up more conversation with George.

"So!" he starts cheerily, hands tucked in his pockets as George confusedly stares at him, "Gonna join us, eh?" the blonde shrugs, "That's cool, I mean, we help each other out and stuff, you know? We're like siblings! Right, Luxure?"

The woman behind him sniffs (so her name's Luxure?), "Whatever…"

"Aw, hey now," Demetrius protests with a smirk, "don't be like that; you love all of us! _Familie_," he says with a roll of his tongue, and George wonders if that's in German as well, "remember?"

George looks over his shoulder, eyeing the woman curiously, who stares at the floor with her lips parted prettily, "Familie," she mutters almost dazedly, and Demetrius grins, before swiftly turning on his heel and yelling out into the front yard, a hand cupping over his mouth.

"Hey! C'mon, slowpokes! The new guy's here!"

There's a high pitched squeal, and soon enough a blur of orange and pink and some other colors is rushing into the foyer. A girl pants, beaming, stops to a halt in front of George, and seems about fifteen or sixteen. He takes in the pinkish, orange hair pulled into pigtails and bright blue eyes, tan skin and freckles sprinkling her nose; the peach strapless top that stops above her navel, the tribal looking bracelets and jewelry, the yellow bandana tied tightly around her arm, brown miniskirt, yellow boots, and the pelt of some type of tan animal fur tied around her waist, along with the dagger holstered to her belt.

She sticks a small hand out, chest heaving, and flicks her bangs out of her face, in the same speedy style as Demetrius. "Hiya!" she greets, vigorously shaking his hand which she actually took hold of, unlike the man previous, "I'm Marg! Well, my actual name's Marguerite—anyways! I'm really glad you're joining our clan—er, _familie_, I mean," she corrects herself, voice all the while chipper and lined with an Australian accent.

Marg cocks her head to the side, frowns, and lowers their clasped hands, squeezing his as he stays still, confused, "You okay? Ooh!—" she smiles largely again, hands clapping together as two more people walk in the doors behind her, then they finally close shut with a thud, "you need a nickname, don't—"

"No."

Marg whimpers slightly, looking saddened, and George watches a obsidian haired man slide up to the blonde one, with scars on his face that remind him of Remus Lupin and piercing electric green eyes that are nearly yellow; their shoulders press together immediately, and George also spots a burly looking older bloke with long brunette hair pulled back into a ponytail and a goatee, who, despite first glance has an oddly calming aura about him trailing behind and halting behind Marg.

The Weasley lastly looks at Luxure over his shoulder, finding her lips pressed thinly together and hands balled into fists, chin jutted out; she was the one who cut Marg off.

"I will not allow him to _join _us; he can eat here and sleep here and spar with us and go on missions with us, but I will not stand for him being with…," she pauses, eyes glossy as if about to say something more, but then looks up again with a steel gaze, "us."

And Demetrius snorts, the black haired man rolls his eyes, the taller, older one grins, and Marg sends the woman a look.

George looks at everyone single one of them. These people _can't_ be Death Eaters… the large one and the blonde, sure, but… they… He shakes his head, highly confused, and out of his peripheral vision sees Phillips cock an amused eyebrow.

"Bloody hell…"

* * *

><p>"Alright," Marg starts, legs pulled up to her chest. George's eyes trail around the room they're all in—it's deep blue walls and fireplace and small window; the book shelves and Victorian couches and the desk with various maps and those Muggle gun things atop it. She raises an arm, the other wrapped around her shins from her perch on the rug near the fireplace as George sits across from her. She points towards the tall muscular man who had recently shucked off his brown trench coat, who's now sitting at the desk. Dazed, George sips some hot chocolate.<p>

"That's Joe, also my papa," George's eyebrows fly up and he nearly chokes on his drink, but doesn't comment. She smirks, then pointing at the blonde haired man hanging upside down off of a couch, now garbed in pajama pants and a grey sweatshirt, watching the flames, "that's Demetrius, and that's Marshall," she gestures towards the same black haired man from before, who's sitting next to Demetrius Indian style, poring through an ancient looking book, chin resting in a hand as the other is ready to flip a page, "and they're both dating… kind of."

Marshall's eyes flick towards them, glaring and Demetrius continues drumming his fingers on his stomach, unfazed. George frowns, still confused, but growing to like Marg—surprisingly, considering she's a Death Eater, but she doesn't really act like one, which is just adding towards George's pounding headache. He takes another sip of cocoa.

"And finally," she gestures towards the blonde woman sitting in a cushioned bay window, "we have Luxure."

"So," he asks, "you're _sure _that—"

"Yes," Marg insists, untying the yellow bandana around her forearm yet again, letting the fabric slip into her lap and onto her nightgown. She holds her arm out, the Dark Mark almost glowing on her tan, otherwise smooth and creamy, skin. She quickly skillfully ties it back on with one hand after George gets a quick glance, as if it's something to be ashamed of… but it isn't, right?

George shakes his head, and Marg launches off into a deeper explanation of their predicament. She says that she met Joe, or her papa, rather, in the summer after her second year when George was in his seventh. She said something had happened with her parents reluctantly, and that she lived around Knockturn Alley ever since she was admitted to Hogwarts. She said Joe took her in, gave her a place to stay and food to eat. He was already Death Eater then, and George was surprised to hear the Luxure and Demetrius were in the same classes as him, though they dropped out in their sixth year, which must've been the perfect time to do so, with all of the Goblet of Fire mess, Cedric Diggory dying, and the whole thing about Voldemort coming back.

"You're kidding!" George exclaims, having never noticed them, "What houses were they in?"

"Huffleuff!" Demetrius yells loudly from the couch, ignoring Joe, Luxure, and Marshall's annoyed looks. He scrambles off and plops down next to Marg, legs criss-crossed, smirking at George's frown. The orange glow from the fire plays across his skin, making the crude scar stretched across his cheek light eerily.

"Thought'd I'd be in Slytherin, didn't you?" he snorts, "That'll prove some stereotypes wrong for you. And," he adds gleefully, "Marshall was in Slytherin and we were best friends. Everyone thought we were crazy, but they knew not to mess with us." George glances at Marshall, finding him smiling behind his book, as Demetrius continues, "And old Luxure," he jabs his thumb behind his shoulder, "was in Ravenclaw. Marg was in Hufflepuff too," he says, gesturing towards the girl beside him who nods, "and Joe was in…," Demetrius pouts, eyebrows furrowing, and he yells over his shoulder.

"Where _were_ you, anyways?"

"Not going to tell you," Joe mutters from the desk, "Never have, never will,—and neither will Marg."

The blonde grumbles as the orange-haired girl grins smugly, but he waves her off and continues.

"Anyhow, Marshall…," Demetrius pauses, as if carefully choosing his words, "…wasn't liked, so to speak. He heard about the Death Eaters, and he joined them, and I go wherever Marshall goes—…not that I have an actual family, anyways. And then Luxure, goddamn she's a fucking veteran! Been looking up things all her time at Hogwarts and interrogating Dumbledore and Snape, but she went to Greece for a little bit after dropping out, and then came back after the Battle."

"I mind the fact that you are talking about my personal life and past behind my back," Luxure pipes up, making the trio turn.

"Technically," Demetrius banters, "It is _you _that is behind _our_ backs."

Luxure breaths heavily, hand clenched in her pants. She scoffs and pushes herself away from the window, lips pulled into a thin line. She stops beside the fireplace and everyone stills.

"Enough of this senseless talking!" she yells, pointing at George, "Either he gets the mark right now or I'm kicking him out!" She whirls towards Joe, who's sitting at the desk, "We don't have time for this!"

"Luxure—" Marg starts warningly, but Marshall's voice interrupts.

"She's right," he agrees, finally closing the book shut after folding down a corner and setting it beside him, standing up and walking next to Luxure, "we _don't_ have time for this. This isn't an inn; George gets his mark now or he should leave." His eyes flick towards Demetrius, and George watches his expression soften, voice exceedingly lower as he murmurs, "We can't put it off any longer…"

"Fine," Demetrius answers curtly, annoyed, standing up; Marg bites her lip and stands as well, glancing at George and then jerking her head up; and he rises too.

"I want to do it," Luxure says a bit too quickly, a bit too eagerly. Marshall rolls his eyes and Demetrius snorts. There's a loud screech of the chair, and Joe comes over, looking grim.

"No, Luxure."

"Why—"

"_No._" Joe raises his hand, the action alone somehow affectively silencing her. Luxure purses her lips then sweeps out of the room, heels clicking all her way up the stairs. Demetrius frowns.

"Damn, she's a drama queen. I hope she doesn't expect pancakes in the morning—"

He grunts as Marshall elbows him harshly, glaring. "Can't you be serious, for _once_?"

George furrows his brow, saying a bit stupidly, "I don't see what the big deal is."

Demetrius smirks, shooting Joe a look. "The big _deal_ is that getting the Dark Mark hurts like hell. It's a spell created by Voldemort—you think it's going to just tickle and you'll have a skull and snake on your arm? It's fucking _agony_—"

"Would you shut up, Demetrius?"

George's eyes widen and he turns to Marg, finding her with fists clenched and eyes hard. She softens a little, looking to Joe, gulping.

"Does he _have_ to get the mark, Papa? He… we…," she begins wringing her hands, "he—he doesn't have to—I mean, it's permanent! And—and George, he isn't like us—he isn't made for this! His—he has a reputation, Papa! We can't—you—I won't let that be thrown away."

Joe sighs as George watches, "You know we need the others' help if George wants to get his brother back. I'm sure they'll be wary—he's a Weasley, for God's sake—he has to do this. It'll be a way to fake his… allegiance. Just like you," he adds, "just like you and Demetrius, and Marshall… and Luxure."

George licks his lips, a million thoughts running through his head—they… they're faking everything? He looks at Marg, her face somber, but she nods nonetheless, stepping away. The older man takes a step forward, wand out.

"Let's make this quick," he mutters, but he doesn't ask George if he's sure he wants to do this—to guise as a Death Eater—to pretend to be a traitor of his family, and George wonders if he knows what it's like to be so desperate you'll do anything.

The redhead holds his left arm out, and he sees Marshall step closer to Demetrius and Marg look away.

"Ready?" Joe asks, his voice soft. George nods.

"Ready."

"_Maledictonium_."

George's eyes widen, mouth open in a silent scream, barely conscious of Marg's blue eyes swimming with tears appearing in front of him.

"It's okay, George," she insists, as agony sweeps through him, hearing and seeing as if underwater.

_"It's okay."_

Oddly, it isn't Marg's voice anymore.

**A/N: **_**EXHIBIT A OF WHY YOU SHOULD NEVER TRUST ME. **_

I have lots of excuses as to why this chapter took a fucking _month_, but only a handful of legitimate reasons. School started, which is not only taking away time to write but has been emotionally taxing—I've been a little depressed and unmotivated. This chapter was also really hard to write, and I'm not sure why—maybe I'm just horrid at introductions.

Speaking of introductions, I hope you don't mind the OCs, but since many of the main Death Eaters (which _will _be in the story soon—George is going to see Rookwood, who, for those who don't know, killed Fred, so stay tuned for that) either died or are now most likely in Azkaban, I had to make it work. I've worked really hard on their backstories and personalities and character development, and one in particular will play a huge part in George's story—another will also be a huge part in the sequel, and then that one and someone else will complete this (surprise!) trilogy.

Yes, this universe will be a trilogy. I'm beginning to work on the two sequels when I really shouldn't, because I need to stay focused on this. Ugh I get distracted way too easily.

Anyways, I hope I've still got some readers—I value your opinions a lot!

Please review!

**PS: **I really don't like this chapter at all, but I've tried tons of times to fix it and it never seems to get better. Hope it isn't as bad as I think it is…

**PPS: **Buchanan Street is a huge street in Glasgow, which is the most populated city in Scotland. Also, the "voice" at the end is Fred's, in case you didn't figure it out~

**PPPS:** I heard on the HP Facts tumblr that in order to get the Dark Mark a spell had to be cast, and that it was extremely painful (Voldemort would also pause and ask if you were sure you wanted to become a Death Eater. If you said no, you'd die). The spell's name wasn't mentioned, and since a lot of the names come from Latin I used a variation of _maledicta_, which means curse.


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